


Blood's Honour

by Nebulad



Series: Honour, Glory, Immortality [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood's Honour AU, Companion AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: "One of my predecessors was a good but short-sighted man. He made a bargain with the Witches of the Glenmoril Coven; if the Companions would hunt in the name of their lord, Hircine, they would be granted great power.”Kastus even took a deep breath before he answered as to not sound like he was mocking Kodlak, but for fuck sake. “What a bargain!” he said dryly, spreading his arms out. “What, was Molag Bal too busy to make you all vampires?”





	Blood's Honour

Lycanthropy wasn’t at all like vampirism: for one, the urge to drink blood was much more manageable than the compulsion to give in to the wolf. Vampirism had also kept him better maintained than being a werewolf was currently doing— bodily maintenance that he’d all but forgotten over the course of centuries was hitting him all at once.

_ I feel terrible Farkas, I can barely move I’m so lightheaded. _

_ Have you eaten? _

_ Have I what? _

He knew what eating was, of course, but it was so difficult to remember to actually do so. If he got busy his body simply wouldn’t tell him that he was hungry until his focus broke, whereas vampirism had a convenient little alarm in the form of his face turning into a grotesque mimicry of an actual human. The screams of horrified villagers was usually just as good as a dinner alarm.

And he supposed that was where lycanthropy won over the urge to say  _ to hell  _ with it all and find someone to change him back. No one… knew he was a werewolf. People commented on how he was less tangibly unsettling than he’d been before. Parents didn’t tug their children past him hurriedly as if he’d snatch them up off the streets (gods, one was enough). Merchants smiled at him and offered him food (apparently his complete inability to care for himself was charming). He went to bed and woke up at the same time as Sissel.

And the sun. He hadn’t thought he’d miss the sun being  _ warm  _ instead of  _ scalding,  _ or just  _ lounging  _ in it like a cat, but more than once Farkas caught him just… laying there. It was borderline religious the way he regarded his new ability to bask like a regular person, to feel the warmth against his face after staying in the dark so long that his skin felt numb and dead. People couldn’t enjoy it the way he could.

So overall, lycanthropy was a positive change in his life. He wasn’t immortal anymore— gods, Kodlak was proof of that— but he wasn’t human and somehow that was the important part. Something about humanity still sat inherently wrong on his shoulders, even now that he had friends who would arguably like to be so again— not to mention Sissel, who most certainly remained as such.

And this, overall, was why he and Kodlak had never gotten along; now especially that the old man decided to make this  _ cure  _ decision on behalf of everyone. “It’s a curse,” he cautioned Kastus gravely, sunken and hollow eyes staring up from his ghoulishly ill body. Sickness had always turned Kastus’ stomach, and the vision of a great warrior reduced to a fucking draugr without the release of death… he resisted the urge to vomit. “Your soul is too precious to squander on fleeting power.”

“I don’t have a soul,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. Everyone thought he was dramatic when he made such sweeping statements but by the Eight: y _ ears! Hundreds and hundreds  _ of bloody  _ years  _ had passed since Kastus had all but begged for his dark gift, so what was left? What could be left when someone wished for soullessness so hard that they were willing to kill for it? Being a murderer had never bothered him, and though he’d… perhaps now he would  _ hesitate  _ at such a suggestion, but only because of the lack of pragmatism! Morality had no standing in a debate that revolved around his ability to exist untroubled.

“That is not for mere men to judge,” the Harbinger moaned, like a spirit already departed. The ghost of warriors past came to save something that’d never existed in Kastus and the implication that he should drag Aela and the twins down with the sick old man was absurd. Certainly Vilkas would agree with Kodlak and gods knew that Farkas would agree with his brother, but the rattling, wheezing of a life near departing… perhaps it would be the guilt that drove the twins, which was no fit way to live a life.

The implication of manhood brushed against Kastus’ skin like an ice wraith’s spikes, and he prickled likewise. “If you want a cure then tell me how to give it to you. I never asked for a lecture about how I choose to live.” It wasn’t power-hunger that drove Kastus, but fear. Fear of having to meet the afterlife trumped any fear about what they would think of him if he ever made his way there.

“Have you heard the story of how we came to be werewolves?” the flesh-skull asked of him. Farkas would be angry if he knew how Kastus felt about the Harbinger, but luckily neither twins were any sort of mind reader and so he was free to be as callous as he wanted in his own head.

“I know that it depends on who you ask,” he returned evenly.

“That, perhaps, is the surest statement about the story itself. But I see you have no time for long-winded tales—” Kodlak looked at him meaningfully but wasn’t contradicted, “—so I will remain brief. One of my predecessors was a good but short-sighted man. He made a bargain with the Witches of the Glenmoril Coven; if the Companions would hunt in the name of their lord, Hircine, they would be granted great power.”

Kastus even took a deep breath before he answered as to not sound like he was mocking Kodlak, but for fuck sake. “What a bargain!” he said dryly, spreading his arms out. “What, was Molag Bal too busy to make you all vampires?”

“They did not believe the change would be permanent,” he hissed.

“They obviously knew jack  _ shit  _ about the daedra then, which is always good when you’re starting to make deals with them.” Kastus had never touched the daedra, which sort of surprised a deviant little part of him. Sure, sure, vampirism was okay but wasn’t daedra worship  _ pushing  _ it a little? Even now, he didn’t have the same dedication to Hircine as Aela did, although he enjoyed being a werewolf almost as much as her.

“They offered  _ payment,  _ like anyone else.”

“And what was the  _ job?  _ Become a daedra worshipper and receive a door prize of fifty septims?” Now he really  _ was  _ mocking the old man who was taking this with far too much gravity considering how idiotic it all was. “No offence, Harbinger, but if any jobs trickle down where a cult wants me to briefly worship their god in order to fetch them some trinket, pass it along.”

Kodlak gritted his teeth, then sighed with the effort. “The Companions were deceived. It was not so straightforward as being handed a bizarre job, and there were many layers to the plot.”

Kastus relented, taking a seat across from the Harbinger. He’d been stubbornly standing for too long and despite Kodlak’s promises to be brief, evidently there was a while to go yet. “It turned out all right in the end, anyway. I can think of worse deals where you’re tricked into being absurdly powerful, and gods know that we all took it willingly.” That was the crux, which he wasn’t certain that Kodlak understood.  _ He  _ hadn’t been tricked into becoming a werewolf. Perhaps in his final days he was having a little buyer’s remorse, having considered the afterlife more literally than he had as a young man, but that wasn’t Kastus’ problem.

“Certainly the witches never lied about the power they bestowed, but the curse affects more than just our bodies.” Luckily Kastus had already sat down, because the  _ soul  _ lecture was going to start again. “Upon death, werewolves are claimed by Hircine for his Hunting Grounds.”

“And that never occurred to anyone?”

“For some at different times in their lives, the fight of it all may seem a paradise. In my twilight years, however, I wish to be a true Nord. My spirit belongs in Sovngarde.” His eyes grew glassy at the thought of the place and Nords were just… too much, sometimes.

“What’s Tsun’s werewolf policy?” he bit. Kodlak ignored him but didn’t continue talking, so Kastus took it upon himself to be the bigger, healthier man. “Well it’s a fantastic story but certainly I wouldn’t be hearing it if it wasn’t going to have a satisfying conclusion. Have you found a way to cure yourself?” He leaned forward, hoping he hadn’t put too much emphasis on  _ self.  _ If he thought for a second that Kastus was going to spread his arms for humanity any time soon, he was mad. Madder if he thought Aela would.

“I’ve spent many years, since Danica found the rot in me, trying to find such a thing. Now, I believe I have it; Glenmoril’s magic ensnared us, and so only they can release us.” Kastus straightened again, uncomfortably. This was going somewhere… very bad. This was  _ hurtling  _ somewhere terrible and gods Kastus had nothing against witches. The majority just wanted to be left alone to stew, and it was hardly their fault if the Companions had fallen for the laziest trickery they’d ever expended; not to mention that if Hircine bloody well wanted them to be werewolves, he’d probably be  _ pissed  _ if suddenly they weren’t anymore.

“Surely you’re not suggesting—”

“Of course I am. They won’t give our cure willingly, but we can take it by force; seek them out and extract their foul powers, and cut them down like a true warrior of the wild. The heads are the seat of their power— bring them to me, and we can begin to undo centuries of impurity.” And he was rather pleased with this, clearly, the whole vision of Kastus as some sort of righteous avenger cutting down some poor old women (well, most likely hagravens) and  _ fucking beheading them. _

“Are you  _ mad?” _ he spluttered, standing up. “They won’t give the fucking cure willingly because the Companions are historically more idiotic than the generation that preceded them. Somewhere in the past, a Harbinger up and said  _ yeah, Hircine sounds great, let’s be werewolves,  _ and when he realised he was really a goddamn werewolf now, rather than let it die with that generation, they passed it on. And continued passing it on.  _ You  _ took it on willingly, passed it to Skjor who took it willingly, who passed it to me who took it willingly.  _ Nothing  _ about this story tells me that I should be bothering this coven for a cup of sugar let alone  _ their heads.” _

“Don’t talk nonsense. The fact that we know where the witches are at all means that we should eradicate them; how long until they begin preying anew, on those less wise than ourselves?”

“Do you know what makes a mage a witch?” Kastus asked, nearly overwhelmed by the fact that he was speaking to a man  _ so much  _ younger than him despite the whole  _ one foot in the grave  _ situation. “When a mage wants to be left to their own devices, they become a witch. Anyone who bothers them is bloody well asking for it, and if Skyrim needs anything it’s to mind its own fucking business more often.”

“If I can’t rely on you, then I’ll send one of the twins.” Once upon a time such a threat may have been delivered in a booming voice, positively shaking the walls with authority. Now, a wizened old man snapped at him from his chair, making positively idle promises.

“If that was an option at  _ all,  _ you would’ve called for them first. You and I agree on very little and I  _ hardly  _ believe you to be the sort to go out of your way to spend time with someone you dislike. Then again, I don’t rightly know you at all— hence why you wouldn’t have called me here unless you had to.” Kodlak’s face twisted irritably, but his shoulders hunched even further than Kastus imagined they could yet go.

The face looking up at him was pathetic, and not in a despicable sort of way. The man was simply old and hadn’t lived the life he thought he ought to have, looking back; certainly he was half mad and Kastus wouldn’t  _ budge  _ on that, because the moment a man took something willingly from a woman and then sought to punish her for his own fucking regrets, he was worthless. Pity for the ill, however, softened Kastus  _ minutely. _ “I want them to choose,” the Harbinger admitted. “I prey too easily on Vilkas’ desire to please, and Farkas’ helpful nature. Neither would deny me in the state I’m in, and their pity would wound me as deeply as rejection would. I’ve already influenced Vilkas on the matter of the blood too much, and he his brother; the final decision, however,  _ should  _ be theirs. I would like my legacy to be a cure for them.”

“Hunting women who’ve done nothing to you isn’t a noble memory to leave them with,” he said coldly, but took a moment to drop his head into his palm. “I’ll talk to the coven. I promise nothing and I won’t kill them unless they strike at me, but I’ve found witches to be far more reasonable than one would expect when they go in swinging.”

“I suppose it’s all I could ask.” The old man seemed far from  _ happy  _ about it, but it was true. The Harbinger couldn’t compel him to eat his vegetables let alone commit murder— though against witches, he doubted it’d be a crime. The laws of the land were fickle that way.

He patiently let the man’s withered fingers make notes on his map but left shortly after, unwilling to hang around to see what other moral quandaries were troubling Kodlak lest he be directed to some sort of vampire orphanage or Giant community centre; gods knew some lives were just less valuable than others, apparently. He also tripped over Aela who, true to form, appeared in front of him like she’d been there the whole time. “So what did he say?” she asked as he stumbled over himself to keep from running into her.

“Lots of things about his soul, my soul, Farkas and Vilkas’ souls, werewolves—”

“You know what I’m asking.”

Having, of course, known, he pulled out his map and pointed to the shivering lines drawn by the old man. “Falkreath,” he said grandly, not sure what he was building up to. “There’s a group of hagravens who might be able to help us.”

“I can only imagine what sort of help Kodlak wants from them. There’s no honour in this,” she spat, as if Kastus had enthusiastically described the myriad of ways in which he would unflinchingly and without hesitation murder the witches.

“I didn’t say there was, and I  _ definitely  _ didn’t say I was going to mindlessly do Kodlak’s bidding. I’ll ask the witches what can be done, and if it’s nothing than the old man will simply have to live with the fact that he turned his back on Sovngarde long ago.” Certainly Farkas would find it very sad if his mentor was unable to ascend to the big mead hall in the sky, but it was hard to have sympathy for someone who only  _ just  _ saw the edge of the cliff when he was out of time to turn from it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Before I start complaining, I have for you a link to [the dating sim](https://nebulous.itch.io/manor-hill) I'm making (it's free so please do go check it out).
> 
> And now for the complaining, a full eight years after Skyrim came out: _hey Companions, what the fuck?_ How does any of this make sense? I know a lot of Kastus fic is used to drag the Companions but he can't help loving the Best Boy and therefore he has to deal with all this nonsense. The real shocker is when Kodlak makes him the Harbinger, which Kastus always thinks is probably a big post-mortem _fuck you_ because the old man knows Kastus thinks this is all batshit.
> 
> There was going to be more of this but then there wasn't. I was gunna do like Kastus actually showing up and maybe some Farkas interim but I did not do that and now I'm not sure that I could, so? Here's this.


End file.
